


And I am Wanting

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Basically a little love letter to Jaskier, F/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Vaginal Sex, just smutty fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22852459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Just a smutty little one shot with our favourite bard.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion & Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion/You
Kudos: 46





	And I am Wanting

You finish brushing your hair and slip under the bed covers, heavy and silk-lined, befitting a bard of Jaskier's standing.

He remains downstairs in this tavern of some renown, singing to the ladies and gentlefolk who have gathered from the surrounding county.

Hopefully, he won't be too tired when he finishes. You reach over and pour wine into two small silver goblets on the bedside table. Just then, the door creaks, and Jaskier, golden doublet resplendent, hair askew, appears in the doorway, silhouetted.

He bows in a courtly fashion. "My lady." His voice is a touch husky, scratchy from use.

You grin. "Come here, bard."

He sets his lute down gently on the broad oak chest at the foot of the bed, then closes the door, locking it. You drink him in with your gaze in the room lit only by candlelight; the blue of his gaze, his slightly lopsided smile, his lean runner's build. He climbs on to the bed, moving over you. He smells of exotic spices, fresh oranges, the dusky fullness of red wine.

"Keeping yourself busy, my love?" He peels back the coverlet to find you undressed. "My, my. I feel another ballad coming on."

You smile against his mouth as he kisses you eagerly. Despite his considerable skill in bed, there's always a sweet earnestness about him that captured you from your first meeting. He's ever chirpy, in love with life, and the brightness is why, you suspect, the sullen Witcher puts up with him.

"Come in me first," you say, cheekily.

He chuckles, sitting up, straddling you, untying the complicated knots that hold his fine doublet together. “The face of an angel and the mouth of a harlot,” he sighs, contented. “A man could drown in you.”

You watch lazily as he undresses in the kiss of candlelight, doublet falling away to reveal a crisp white undershirt. A smattering of chest hair flirts with the fabric as he peels it away. A fine sheen of clean sweat clings to his body from a night’s long performance. You look forward to licking it off. He drops the shirt on the floor, where it whispers down, unmissed, and his clever bard’s fingers move to the stays on his breeches. He looks up, his gaze meeting yours, naughty, that slightly lopsided grin painted on his gently handsome face.

“No comments on my performance?” he teases.

You watch him from heavy-lidded eyes. “This is merely the warm-up. I can’t comment until the end.”

“Wench,” he laughs and rids himself quickly of breeches, smallclothes, worn leather boots. They join his shirt and silky, gold doublet on the floor, and you lift the covers, inviting him to slip beneath with you. You sigh as his long, lean body covers yours, and his hands find your breasts, lute-callused fingers playing your nipples like music notes, the pleasure as bright and fresh as a cherry blossom spring breeze. You arch your back to give him better access and his clever mouth replaces his fingers, half a day’s stubble worrying your sensitive skin pleasantly. He murmurs sweet nothings as his lips work, and against your thigh, he’s hard and ready, but unhurried.

“Jaskier.” You sink your fingers into his short, thick hair, bowing your back, spreading your legs to better fit your bodies together.

“I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting,” he murmurs, and you recall the first time he strummed out  _ Her Sweet Kiss _ to you as the moon rose high in the sky, your bed a pile of furs and blankets, roasting meat hanging over a crackling fire, the specter of a moody Geralt crouching nearby doing nothing to dim the romance of the moment. 

Jaskier moves down your body, his breath warm on your skin. Even his breathing has a musical cant to it, you think as he moves your legs apart. He glances up at you, winks, and he takes your breath away. Your heart gallops as he puts that clever tongue to work in your most secret place. Whatever he’s doing - writing his name, your name, the name of the inn - he brings you to the brink, again and again, his busy mouth making sure you know that it’s good for more than singing. Although when he sings, you adore him all the more.

You keen his name as you come on a burst of light behind your eyelids. The candlelight flickers over Jaskier’s lean, naked chest as he sits up, lips shiny from attending to you, erection proud against his flat stomach, and automatically you reach for him. He goes willingly, leaning up on an elbow. You turn to face him, winding your hand around him. “Gods, yes,” he murmurs, supplications tripping from his tongue as you spoil him as he did you. You push him onto his back and drop open-mouthed kisses down his chest and abdomen, then finally, finally, curl your tongue around the velvet head of him.

He gasps silently, and you smirk, thinking that this is always a reliable way to shut Jaskier up. You tongue him lazily as if licking a cone of sugar, and when he twists a hand in your hair and mutters, “Oh, fuck,  _ fuck- _ ” you lift your head and mount him. You keep your gaze on his as a litany of praise and pleas and swearing, whisper-soft, fills your ears. He bites his lip, finally silent, as you take him into your body, inch by inch. His body trembles beneath you, and you think of all the different Jaskiers. This one, yours, the one you see only in the bedchamber. The confident, desired bard, lording it over court and taverns across the country. Geralt’s Jaskier, the traveling companion, mouthy, over-sharing.

You love them all.

Jaskier’s clever hands settle on your hips as you set up a rhythm, and ever the musician, he helps you into it, until you’re both breathing hard. The patter of rain starts outside, and you look into his eyes, the colour of a summer sky storm, and think you’ll never, ever tire of him.

He gasps your name and starts pistoning his hips up into yours. You grab the headboard for support, uncaring if the guest in the next room hears you. You’re way beyond caring about anything but the sound and feel and smell of the bard underneath you. The second orgasm tears through you like teeth, but sweeter, and Jaskier is loud when he comes, his head thrown back, and he’s beautiful.

Later, he cleans you both up with a warmed, damp cloth, and curls around you, murmuring lyrics as he kisses into your hair, nuzzling at your neck.

“What more could a bard want,” he asks sleepily.

You breathe him in; lute polish and wine and sex and orange peel, and settle into a deep, happy slumber.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
